


love.

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Series: Narnia Musings [54]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24714664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: Your brother holds a sword; / a legend, a story, a myth; / to my throat / his eyes a storm / his hands calm / and still: / the world stands still / with you.or:the Telmarine prince, amongst all that rises from the ground to swallow his uncle whole, muses on his loves
Relationships: Caspian & Caspian's Wet Nurse (Narnia), Caspian & Cornelius (Narnia), Caspian & Miraz (Narnia), Caspian & Trufflehunter (Narnia), Caspian/Edmund Pevensie
Series: Narnia Musings [54]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714795
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	love.

My uncle  
with his hands dripping red  
with his teeth all stuck together  
calls love a fairy tale  
woven for fools  
and commoners

You look at me  
with those eyes  
brown as the soil  
green as the woods  
your swords ooze Telmarine blood  
into Narnian soil

My wet nurse  
with her voice like a song  
her hands so soft on my cheeks  
says that she loves me  
_all my life  
_ I never see her again.

The dryads awake  
amongst blood and agony  
and the world tilts anew  
they gather around you, see  
and –   
oh.  
you smile.

My teacher  
with his beard tucked into his belt  
with his eyes forged of silver  
teaches me his; your; tongue  
in a hushed voice  
when the sun hasn’t risen  
yet.

Your brother holds a sword;  
a legend, a story, a _myth_ ;  
to my throat  
his eyes a storm  
his hands calm  
and still:  
the world stands still  
with you.

The badger  
with his head weighed down  
his Language stuck to his throat  
cradles the horn  
and looks at me.

I cannot bear it.

Your brother fights a duel  
for show  
as a distraction  
or maybe a flourish  
his mouth twisted mockery  
his sword legend

There is not a wound on him.

And still, you reach for him  
with soft hands  
and soft eyes  
your voice a quiet thing  
 _Are you alright?_

The Just King  
a sword in each hand  
a smile on his lips  
lies in my arms  
in this groaning hammock  
on this aching ship

There’s still earthly paint in his hair  
and the damp smell of England on him

Oh.

_– my uncle was wrong. he always was. I love you._


End file.
